Page 22 of Soothsayer

“You really aren’t used to being in the middle of a firefight, huh.”

I sighed and stopped trying to get out of my jacket, letting the cloth settle back down over the bullet hole. Now that the adrenaline was wearing away, I could feel the burn where the stitches had been pulled.

“No, I’m really not. I try not to let situations get that far. It tends to end badly for me.”

“Well, settle in and just breathe, okay? I’ll fix you up when we get home.” He checked the backseat in the rearview mirror. “Although feel free to talk to me about the dead guy in the backseat whenever you want.”

“He’s not dead.” I looked back at Sören reflexively, as if to convince myself of that fact. No bullet holes in him that I could see—that was good. He was just…still. “He’s in stasis.”

“In stasis.”

“Yep.”

“That sounds suspiciously Star Trekkie to me.”

“Fuck off,” I snapped.

“You don’t actually know what’s going on with him, do you?”

“That’s what I’m going to figure out.” Figuring that out was now my life’s purpose. “He’s important, though. He’s the key to what’s going on with the Egilssons, I’m sure of it.”

“Really? Because at first glance, he doesn’t seem to have anything at all in common with their mysterious warehouse.”

“Except for, maybe, the mysterious part?” I shut my eyes determinedly. “You worry about getting us to a secure location; I’ll worry about how this all fits together.” I could tell Andre wanted to argue with me—the pressure of his gaze was palpable—but he didn’t speak. That was nice. I was a tired of being yelled at, in English or otherwise.

First priority: get myself patched up, because as much as I used to believe I was an island, really I was an archipelago at best. I needed help with some things, and putting fresh stitches in my arm was one of them.

Second priority: new transportation, and fast. Something that would fly under the radar, nothing that required me to use identification to purchase or rent it, and roomy. Preferably with tinted windows or—I winced—a big trunk.

Third priority: get the hell out of Chicago, find someplace to lay low for a while, and make some calls. I knew almost nothing about what was going on here, but I had contacts who were experts in, well, everything. I knew shamans. I knew priests. I knew hunters. I knew people who’d dealt with way heavier shit than me over the course of their lives. Possessions, plagues, angry zombie hillbillies—I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen the bite marks, but it had happened. The world was full of specialized knowledge, and I was in a unique position to bargainfor it. Almost everyone wanted to know about themselves. Vanity, more than envy or pride, was the real weakness of humanity. The truly selfless were few and far between, and that made my job easier.

About ten minutes later, we pulled into a cul-de-sac populated with identical gray and blue townhomes. Andre and his wife lived in an end unit with a double garage, which the Tesla shared with an enormous old Buick that was somewhere in the process of being restored. As soon as the garage shut, Andre was out, grabbing my duffel from the backseat and, after a moment, gingerly rearranging Sören’s limbs into a marginally more comfortable position.

“He’s warm,” he remarked with surprise.

“I told you he’s not dead. Just…”

“In stasis.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, fine. Get inside, take a right into the kitchen, and donotget blood on my carpet.”

I checked my shoes to make sure they were clean before I entered the townhome. It was as generically cozy as I’d imagined, white walls and champagne carpet with occasional faux-wood accents and baby paraphernalia scattered all over the place. I made my way to the kitchen and sat on a wooden stool, grateful to be off my feet. For a moment, just a moment, I let myself feel all the anxiety that was building in me, all the hopefulness that had been transformed to fresh frustration. I kind of wanted to hit something, but that would just hurt, so I restrained myself and sat, cataloging scents. Coffee grinds in the trashcan, dirty frying pan in the sink that had been used to make eggs, blood…oh right, that was me.

“Hey.” My eyes shot open, and I looked up at Andre, who had a first aid kit in one hand and was looking at me warily. “Cillian. You back?”

“I didn’t know I’d gone anywhere,” I griped.

“You didn’t hear me come in, didn’t hear me ask the question the first time. I thought I’d check before touching you.”

“Always smart.” I went to take the jacket off again, but he waved me down.

“I’ve got scissors for that.” And he did, sturdy paramedic scissors that were dull enough not to cut me but strong enough to slice through a seat belt.

“This was a new suit,” I said sullenly, but I let him cut it off my back.

“Now you know—buy cheap,” Andre said. “I’m doing the shirt too, just hang on.” A moment later he pulled the cuffs over my wrists and then looked at my arm. His mouth tensed. “So. Not your first gunfight recently.”

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